


They're Only Dreams, Goodnight

by warqueenfuriosa



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 11:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8205373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warqueenfuriosa/pseuds/warqueenfuriosa
Summary: Goodnight never talked about the nightmares during the war. But after the war ended and life moved on, the nightmares remained and Goodnight struggles to cope with the unwelcome memories trapped in his mind. Until he meets Billy Rocks. It was only supposed be a business partnership, keeping each other alive, maybe earning a little money on the side if they were lucky. Absolutely nothing more than that.But Billy isn't stupid. And the truth will come out, whether Goodnight is ready for it or not.





	

Goodnight never told anyone about the nightmares. He suspected Sam knew but neither one of them talked about it. The war gave everyone nightmares after all. And he’d be damned if he was the only one to complain while others suffered in silence.

But the war was over now and the nightmares remained, unwelcome guests in his mind, ghostly faces of those he saw fall and those he killed. The screaming. The blood. Bullets tearing through the earth, trees, buildings, horses, bone and flesh alike.

So Goodnight stopped sleeping.

Well…he tried to anyway.

When days had passed and he’d had no more than a light doze here and there, things started to shift and melt into each other. His hands began to tremble and food stuck in his throat, although the latter usually happened whenever he thought of the war. That wasn’t anything new.

He fought it as much as he could and did his best to keep moving, keep distracting himself, cards, women, a good solid fistfight if he was drunk enough. The pain felt good then, when he took a few knuckles on the chin. Knock some sense into him, knock the fear out of him.

But eventually sleep would arrive, demanding and merciless. Goodnight couldn’t fight it anymore, no matter how much he might want to. When he felt that happening, when he saw himself slipping in this losing battle – a saying he was coming to despise, nothing but endless war everywhere he looked – Goodnight drank himself senseless. At least then, after the sleep took him, the dreams would be far from his mind. For a few blessed hours.

By the time he met Billy Rocks, Goodnight was well into that rhythm of no sleep until the point of exhaustion left him no choice in the matter. As much as Sam didn’t mention the nightmares, Billy was even quieter on the subject if that was possible. And that was just fine with Goodnight.

The two of them developed a comfortable understanding quickly enough. Goodnight handled the business end of things while Billy handled the…bloody…end of things. Billy didn’t even flinch when he killed all those cocky loud mouths oh so eager to lose their lives. For a while, Goodnight couldn’t even bear to watch when Billy took on a duel. Oh, sure, Goodnight Robicheaux had no problem talking plenty of folks out of their money and he’d put on his most charming smile to ensure that everything was running smoothly for the ensuing event.

But Goodnight wanted to wring their necks for being so stupid…and he would have, if that didn’t include more killing. More killing he didn’t want to be a part of. Didn’t they know their lives were the most precious gift they would ever have? Didn’t they know boys barely weaned from their mothers’ skirts had died on the battlefield as whispered prayers poured from their lips like water?

 _Please god, keep me safe, get me through this, let me go home to see my sweet mama one more time, I just want to see my mama_.

Then the bullets would fly. And the boys wouldn’t be afraid anymore.

Yet these men…Goodnight watched as they willingly faced the risk of death without hesitation, all because of too much ego, too much pride, and not nearly enough money to sweeten the deal. Goodnight tried to make sure the duels ended civilly, that both parties walked away with their lives intact. But guns were involved, along with human error. And stupidity. A deadly combination if ever there was one. Lives ended more often than Goodnight could save them.

Just like the war. All over again.

It took nearly a year for Billy to say something. Goodnight supposed Billy knew much earlier than that but he was allowing Goodnight his space, giving him time to come to grips with what was bothering him. When a boy barely eighteen lost a match and rushed Billy out of anger, forcing Billy’s hand...Goodnight drank himself onto the floor of the saloon that night.

Despite Billy’s slight size, he was stronger than he looked, lean with muscle, and he dragged Goodnight to his hotel room to sleep it off. Through the haze of alcohol, Goodnight hardly knew what was going on and his mind was already slipping into that dark place from seeing that boy die.

The blood.

The screaming.

Goodnight’s fingers curled into fists. He wasn’t aware that his fingers had caught the front of Billy’s shirt, dragging Billy down towards him from the subconscious desire to not be alone against the terrors in his mind, until Billy pried his hands away.

“Goodnight,” he said, his voice low, “it’s all right.”

“No, no it’s not,” Goodnight rasped.

“Yes it is. Go to sleep.”

“But I can’t. I see them. I hear them.”

“It’s just me here. They’re only dreams, Goodnight.”

Goodnight sagged against the pillows as his eyes drifted closed. Billy’s hands trailed away from him, leaving a chill behind to match the chill in Goodnight’s chest. At the last second, Billy let his fingers settle on Goodnight’s wrist and stayed there until Goodnight fell asleep, all throughout the night, and well after the sun rose.

When Goodnight woke, his head felt as if it was splitting in two, his tongue thick and dry against the roof of his mouth. He groaned as he sat up, pressed a hand over his eyes. Billy was seated in a chair next to him, his feet propped up on the bed, his head tipped down against his chest.

Goodnight nudged his foot.

“Go on back to your room,” he said. “Get some rest before we ride out. After I spend some time with a little whisky.”

“You’ve had enough, Goodnight,” Billy said.

Goodnight squinted at him. “I’m the one who decides what we do.”

He felt like shit for saying that but the damage was already done. Billy met his stare, level and even. Their partnership was just that: a partnership. Neither of them pulled rank. But god damn it all to hell, no one was going to tell him what to do.

“I won’t stop you,” Billy said with a shrug.

Goodnight nodded. “Damn straight.”

But the unspoken words were louder than the hammer pounding away in Goodnight’s head. Billy very well could stop him. But he wasn’t going to because he chose not to.

Goodnight scrubbed a hand over his face, shoved off from the bed and stumbled to the door. Just as he turned the handle, Billy spoke again.

“You did what you had to in order to survive.”

Goodnight stopped dead in his tracks. A sob rose in his throat and he swallowed it down again. He’d heard that phrase…so…so many times, as if by saying it over and over, it would sink in, take the pain away, the guilt, the blood stains on his hands, the memories.

It never did.

“You think I haven’t thought of that?” Goodnight said without turning around.

“I’m sure you have,” Billy replied. “But I wasn’t finished.”

“Then say your piece and be done with it. My head is damn near killing me and I haven’t had nearly enough alcohol to get me through this conversation.”

Billy was silent for so long, Goodnight wanted to scream at him, shake him, beat the words out of him.

“I’m sorry,” Billy said. “I’m sorry you went through what you did. I’m sorry you will carry the burden of those deaths on your shoulders for the rest of your life. I’m sorry to see how it suffocates you, drains the life out of you. I’m sorry, Goodnight.”

A beat of silence filled the room.

Then Goodnight sucked in a breath and the ragged sound of grief that came tearing out of his throat made him burn with shame. Billy slipped up behind him on whisper soft footsteps. His hand came to rest between Goodnight’s shoulder blades, his touch light and comforting with a strength Goodnight only wished he could possess himself so he didn’t feel like a coward all the time.

Goodnight sank to his knees as he cried, harder than he’d ever let himself cry before. Billy settled down next to him, wrapping his arms around Goodnight’s shoulders and pressing his chin against Goodnight’s back, bent from the weight of so many deaths on his conscience.

Goodnight told Billy everything. The entire story came flooding out after years of being dammed up. He didn’t even tell Sam all the gritty details. But he told Billy. And Billy listened without saying a word the whole time.

When he was done, Billy nodded slowly.

“I think it’s time for a drink,” he said.

They shared a modest round of drinks and talked of other things besides war and killing. Goodnight even laughed a little. Billy didn’t let him get too deep into the bottle and as Goodnight looked across the table at Billy, he found that he didn’t want that much whisky tonight anyway. He told someone. He finally told someone and it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Billy didn’t feed him the same line everyone else did. Billy didn’t accuse him, chastise him, brush him off.

Billy listened.

Goodnight leaned back in his chair and sighed, not a tired sigh, for once in a very long time. Just...contented. He knew this didn’t solve everything. His mind would likely be haunted for the rest of his life and he’d always be struggling against that. But now, at least, he wasn’t alone.

Goodnight raised his head, a slight smile on his lips.

And Billy smiled back.

When Goodnight drifted to his room and Billy began to wander off to his own room, Goodnight stopped at his door.

“Billy,” he said.

Billy paused, glanced over his shoulder at him.

“Yes?”

Goodnight’s heart felt as if it would jump right out of his chest. What if he lost that respect and understanding he saw in Billy’s eyes?

“Would you…?” He hesitated then tipped his head in the direction of his room. “Would you stay the night again? It…helped.”

Billy watched him for a moment before he stepped forward, turned the knob and opened the door. He hooked two fingers into the front of Goodnight’s belt and backed up into the shadows of his room, pulling Goodnight in with him.

“Goody,” Billy said, “I thought you’d never ask.”

 


End file.
